


Undertow

by Molly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: salt_burn_porn, M/M, first-time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-03
Updated: 2010-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:17:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly/pseuds/Molly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Angels, demons, zombies, an apocalypse or two -- whatever, fine.  Telling truth to blood, though.  That's scary.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Undertow

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [salt_burn_porn](http://salt_burn_porn.livejournal.com) for the prompt _hotel sex_ , from **latentfunction**. Many, many thanks to **13chapters** for the late-night, last-minute beta!

Sam thinks of it as his psychic year, the year when the dreams started coming while he was awake. Now, with Azazel dead -- not just dead like humans die, _unwritten_ from the story of the world -- the silence inside him is like living under clear, cool water, all the time.

The dreams, the _visions_ , they came at him like thugs, battering at him with clubs and ripping with knives and shoving themselves into his head, making him see things he never asked for. They came at random, hunching him over with agony like his brain cramping in his skull until bright red liquid flowers bloomed in his eyes and covered everything. He always expected blood when they were over; buckets of it. Gallons. So unlikely that he could hurt so bad and not bleed out from it, not dry up and die.

But that was in his psychic year. He's not even sure Dean remembers. A few crazy visions, _one_ measly little demon. Now they've killed whole tribes of the damn things, captured their god and ended their whole damned religion. Now they've been to Hell and been spit back out, both of them. Dean's got his heart set on leaving it all behind them, but this thing. This little piece of Sam, this quiet dead crazy piece.

It's started talking to him.

With Azazel gone, Sam rolled up inside himself like the fingers of a clenched fist. Nothing got in or out. Then Ruby slid her hands into him, pried him open, poured blood and filth and lies into him until all her lies were the truth. Then Lucifer. Then, then, then.

But now. There are these whispers. There are these hands, silent and invisible. Careful. They brush against his thoughts so easy, like a sweet breeze across tall grass, and they don't hurt, they don't take anything. They don't force anything and they don't make him give anything away.

In the car, on the highway, the whispers are louder than the road noise, louder than the radio. Louder than Dean singing along off-key. Sam tilts back against the headrest and watches Dean's fingers tapping out of rhythm on the steering wheel, watches Dean's head bob with the music. Every now and then Dean looks over and sees Sam looking, and every time, he smiles. They drive, and they kill things, and they give each other these looks, and all along, all underneath it... there are these whispers.

"You know I can hear you," Sam says as they roll up an on-ramp, picking up speed. Dean looks at him, eyes wide, and while he's looking at Sam he's not looking at the road and the word 'merge' starts to get a bit literal.

"What?" Dean demands, yanking the wheel out of Sam's desperate hands, "cut it out, you'll get us killed, you moron," and that's it, right there: That's the voice.

"I can _hear_ you, Dean," Sam says. "You giant, crazy freak. You need to get us off this road, right now."

And Dean does; that's their mile on I-10 for the day. They take a right at the first light and end up in a better neighborhood than the ones they usually frequent, in a town they don't even know the name of. And then there's this hotel, not remotely their kind of thing, a freaking Marriott, and Dean pulls into the parking lot like he owns the place. He turns off the engine. They listen to it tick as it cools down, not looking at each other because it's too hard. Angels, demons, zombies, an apocalypse or two -- whatever, fine. Telling truth to blood, though. That's scary.

" _Everything_?" Dean says finally, and finally he looks up, so of course Sam has to match him. Dean's a little white around the eyes.

"You're coming through loud and clear on every channel."

"Well." Dean runs a hand through his hair, fiddles a minute with a loose button on his jacket. "Crap. I forgot about your freaky psychic powers."

Sam rolls his eyes. "I know."

"I thought you didn't have those anymore."

"Me too," Sam says. "And yet."

Dean glares. "You can't blame a man for what he says in the privacy of his own skin, Sam. It's not fair. I don't even think it's legal. Anyway, I didn't mean anything by it. Any of it."

"Well, crap." Sam sighs regretfully. "In that case, I guess I'll have to donate the condoms and lube I picked up at the last truck stop to charity."

That shuts Dean up for a while, inside and out. His eyes go wide, and then they narrow, and then the silence in Sam's mind, the clear cool underwater silence, is converted to Aerosmith, the early years. Sam shakes his head, and shuts it down, and the silence comes back. Dean looks disappointed. Not quite as much as Sam is, though. Having Dean's voice inside him has been the next best thing to the promises Dean's been making. And now there's just nothing.

"Stop it," Sam says quietly, and opens himself up again. He slides across the front seat and Dean's not really keeping up, he's not ready, but his arms come open on automatic and it's that, it's that very thing, that makes this right.

"This is awkward," Dean says, so close their noses bump and their eyes cross.

"Think," Sam says. "Don't talk. It's not your strong suit."

 _Agreed_ , Dean whispers, and closes his eyes, and Sam hears him; and then Sam feels the whisper-soft press of Dean's mouth on his, like it's asking a question and terrified of the answer.

 _I heard everything, and kept listening,_ Sam tells him, with his head and his lips, and then with his teeth and his tongue, tells him until Dean's reaching inside Sam's jacket and biting at his throat, until the whispers are a river between them and all they say is yes, and please, and more.

When they break apart, not far, still sharing every breath, Dean's hand is on Sam's jaw, and Sam's holding onto Dean's hips, both of them clinging frantically to somebody who has no desire to get away. It's crazy to be desperate for something you can have any time you want, but there they are.

 _Sam,_ Dean whispers, and then says, "Sam," and the gravel in his talking voice is something else again.

Sam shakes his head, fumbles with the door behind him until it opens and spills him out into the sun. He's inside before Dean's out of the car, laying down a credit card and asking for a room, any room. Dean catches up at the desk and hovers behind him, not quite touching, while the nice lady in the nice jacket hands them two plastic keycards in a folded envelope with their room number written on the back. They take an elevator with shiny doors up to the seventh floor, absolutely quiet.

The room is nice. Not quite ritzy; kind of corporate. Like an upscale, sepia-toned photograph of the place they slept last night. Basically the same layout, basically the same stuff, only everything's softer, and everything's clean, and almost everything is beige. Sam gives himself about half a second to catalogue the differences before pulling off his shirt, and then Dean's pressing up against his back, hands warm and rough on his chest, and Sam doesn't care where he is anymore after that. He strips himself down, then does the same for Dean; then he takes his brother to the bed.

The bed is different. It's soft. It gives when they sink into it, it's warm, and in the bright sun pouring in from the windows, the whiteness of it is almost blinding. Dean, bare and strong and beautiful, is almost blinding.

It's like holding onto light with his bare hands. Dean feels cool and smooth and hard coming into his arms, strange angles and tan lines and scars all mixed together across his skin. Sam's never wanted anything as much as he wants to do this, have this -- wants to be right where he is, right now. Dean braces himself above Sam, easy and strong, his mouth curled in a quarter of a smile and his eyes heavy-lidded with the rest of it. He moves, and Sam takes a sharp, staggered breath -- it's almost too much.

"What am I thinking now?" Dean says in a low, smug voice.

"That you're way more awesome than you are." The words come out in random bursts of sound that make a liar out of Sam, but he doesn't care. He can still hear Dean, underneath everything; he can _feel_ Dean on his skin and in his head and in his heart. He smiles, and Dean smiles like an echo, and everything gets warmer.

Dean lowers himself, and as he comes all the way down his eyes fixed on Sam's mouth; the rumble of current running under the surface between them kicks up into a whine. Sam's not sure if he did that or if Dean did, but Dean's teeth latch onto Sam's lower lip and tug and suddenly that's the only thing that matters. Sam follows him up, opens him up, a kiss that starts out crazy and ends up sweet, slowing into something lazy as soon as they're sure of each other. Comfort and heat flow out of Dean's mind and into Sam's, a weird mix of sex and security. Sam's knees come up, open up, and it feels right to have Dean settled in between them, to have Dean's dick rubbing slow and hard against his. Feels like what Sam's wanted for way too long, what Dean wants. What they both need.

"You've been thinking about this for a while," Sam says, dazed and happy at the thought of it. "You've got a filthy mind, Dean."

"Doesn't sound like it bothers you much." Dean takes a long, speculative look at Sam's shoulder; then he leans in and bites it, sucks and bites again. Sam shudders, the hairs at the base of his skull standing up.

"Higher," Sam says, and Dean beams at him, latches onto his throat a little closer to his ear; it tingles from his hairline to his toes, a wave of sensation like a buzz underneath his skin.

 _Perfect_ , he doesn't say; and Dean says, "Thanks. I try."

Sam smiles, pleasure winding around him like the tangle of the clean, crisp sheets. He's hard and ready, but he feels too good to move. He lets Dean work at him with his teeth and tongue, with his hands, with every deliberate shift of skin on skin, and he stares up at the smooth white ceiling and lets it happen, waits for it, while the need just builds and builds.

"Lazy bastard," Dean mutters, and bites at a random spot on Sam's chest; bites _hard_ , like he means it. Sam sucks in a breath and lets it out in a long, rough hiss. It feels good, better than pain ought to feel, and he wonders if there's anything he wouldn't let Dean do to him, anything he could possibly say no to.

"Come on," Sam says, "are we doing this today?"

"I'm just waiting for you to do more than close your eyes and think of Kansas."

"I was serious about the lube and condoms." Sam twists under Dean, his cock rubbing against Dean's stomach, and it's hard to stay focused like that but he's on a mission. He leans over the edge of the bed and digs into the jeans he abandoned on the soft carpet, tracing along a seam to find his pocket. It's all there, a little tube and a couple of foil packets, not exactly high in ambiance but they'll do the job he bought them for. When he flops onto his back again, triumphant, Dean's braced over him, shaking his head.

"You're a Grade-A mood killer, Sammy," he says. But he take one of the little packets out of Sam's hands and rips it open with his teeth, grinning and waggling his eyebrows while Sam's gaze doesn't waver an inch. "You want to do this, or...?"

"You do it." It's not that Sam doesn't want to spend quality time with his hands all over Dean; it's just that the idea of watching suddenly seems like the hottest thing in the world. He's got this image in his head, Dean reared back in the sunlight, stiff and leaking, all of his focus on himself. On his brown, weathered hands, on the slick latex stretching tight and thin over his skin. Sam's cock twitches at just the thought of it and he groans, shifting his hips against Dean.

"Why not," Dean says. His eyes are lazy and half-lidded. "I'm doing everything else." But there's this note in his voice that Sam knows, the one that says he'll do anything for Sam, is happy to do anything Sam wants. He never knew it would take them this far, but he's glad, so fucking glad it has.

Sam says, "Look," and pours the image into Dean like warm, sweet water. It takes some of Sam with it, the flush of heat in his chest, the winding pull of pleasure slowly tightening under his skin. The want, all of it, and not just the want that's sex; the part of him that wants everything, Dean's trust and his heart and his head and whatever else he can get.

Dean closes his eyes, his face twisting in what looks like pain but Sam knows it isn't, knows this is just how it works with Dean. The hard stuff he can handle; easy things, good things -- that takes a little more effort.

"In case you thought it was just you," Sam says, smiling; and after a second Dean's eyes open and it's all reflected back at him, just like Sam knew it would be.

Dean's eyes don't leave Sam's while he does it: a pinch at the tip of the condom before rolling it down with a casual rub that makes his cock twitch in his hand. It only takes a few seconds, a little longer because Dean's playing it up for him. But it's long enough to break through Sam's control. He pushes himself up on his elbows, staring at Dean's hand like it's all there is to look at in the world, and then he bats that hand away. He puts his own there instead, wraps his fingers around Dean's cock and strokes, his fingers stark and rough against the smooth latex.

"My turn." He takes the lube back, smoothes it onto his palms till they glisten with it. He uses one on Dean, tugging and pulling, getting him slick and wet. He goes up on his knees to use the other on himself, watching Dean watch him, a feedback loop that doesn't need anything extra behind it; the five senses they were born with handle it all just fine.

When they're ready -- when Dean's shoving into his hands, muttering unflattering things he doesn't mean under his breath, holding Sam's face with those broad hands and panting like he's hit the hard part of a marathon -- Sam goes down onto his back again. He brings his knees up and open, says, "Come here," in a tight, controlled voice he didn't even know he had. And Dean does; he spreads himself over Sam like a blanket.

He takes the little tube away from Sam, wets his fingers down and puts them where Sam's were last; there's a flicker of surprise in the air between them, _warm_ , and then it's past and gone. Dean grunts, closes his eyes and shoves his fingers in deeper, rougher than he means to be but Sam finds out he likes it just fine. "It's okay," he says, his hands on Dean's shoulders, "it's good, hush, it's okay." He pushes himself hard onto Dean's hand to prove it, and the word that filters through this time is _hot_.

"You know you're not getting paid by the hour, right?" Sam says, then gasps to get back the air he lost; he doesn't have it to spare. It's easier to just to shove at Dean's thoughts, _get on with it, Dean, God, just--_

"Ambiance," Dean says, a wicked dark grin on his lips, and he lines himself up and does it, finally, _finally_ , pushes while Sam's body fights him, tenses and tightens, pushes because Sam's telling him to do it, because Dean does what Sam wants whenever he can; because it's what Dean wants, too. "Come on, Sam, don't lose it on me now," he says, "open up, you've been bitching about it all afternoon, come _on_."

Sam grits his teeth, takes a breath; it's been a while. But he shifts his hips and lets go, he lets Dean in, a slow and even glide, all the way. It's rough; it hurts, just a little. It feels like it should, like they're doing something hard, something that's going to mark them forever.

It feels good. And then Dean pulls himself back, his eyes go wide and stunned, and he drives in again, just like Sam wants him to, the echo of every sensation caught in the gasp that breaks out of his throat as he tilts his head back, closes his eyes, lets go.

"God," Sam says, "Dean," because Dean is in him, he's everywhere, "just like that," he says, which isn't even necessary because Dean knows. Of course he knows; Sam knows, too. How far to tilt his hips so Dean can bottom out inside him, where to put his hands, where Dean wants his mouth and his tongue and his teeth. He feels the slide of the sheets along Dean's skin, tastes himself with Dean's mouth; he feels the grip of his body around Dean's dick, feels his own heat and groans and hears it like Dean hears it, from the outside, and it makes his heart clench in his chest, or Dean's heart, he's not sure, and he's not really sure if it matters.

"Just like this," Dean says, and it's not a question; it's what he knows, in himself and in Sam. It's what they both know. He reaches between them, slow, and his fingers close around Sam's dick, squeeze him just right, stroke him just right. He feels good in Dean's hand, and Dean's hand feels good on him, and for a second, just this one crazy amazing second, they're together inside each other, inside themselves.

"You're never leaving," Dean says, shocked into stillness. "Sam, you..." His eyes are wide and searching as he stares down at Sam, reading in Sam's face what he already knows from Sam's mind. "You don't even want to."

 _Never did_ , Sam tells him, shows him, _never will_ and Dean laughs, shaky and high and joyous.

"Secretive son of a bitch," Dean says, and he shoves into Sam hard, like that's a punishment, and Sam arches his back and takes it as hard as Dean can give it, over and over; takes it until he can feel Dean in every part of him. Between his legs, between his hands, between his fucking atoms, everywhere. Coming is like breaking apart, but Dean's there to hold the pieces together, arms wrapped around him like he'll never let go, and he won't -- that's the best thing, the beautiful thing, that's the thing Sam didn't know that Dean always did.

Dean won't ever let him go.

"I fucking love this bed," Sam says breathlessly, "you don't even know," and after a second's pause to take that in Dean's laughing, fucking into him and laughing and coming all at once, the most ridiculous look on his face that Sam's ever seen, and that's saying something. _I love it_ , Sam doesn't say, which isn't even what he means, but it doesn't matter, because Dean knows. Maybe he didn't before, maybe he won't always believe, but for now Sam can read it in him, read it on his face. For now, he knows.

Dean pushes Sam's sweat-soaked hair out of his face, leans down, and takes his mouth in a deep, quick, thorough kiss. "Crazy," he says, meaning both of them, and flops over onto his back next to Sam, their fingers still tangled together. He lets go long enough to get rid of the condom and use his T-shirt as a make-shift rag to wipe them both down; and then he comes back, wraps his hand around Sam's again, and holds on.

"Best idea you ever had," Sam says when he can breathe again. "And you were going to keep it to yourself."

Dean shrugs and pulls the wrecked sheets up over them both. He's mostly back in his own head, and Sam's mostly inside his own, but a thread still winds between them, bright and warm and welcome; he thinks it might be there to stay. "Don't take this the wrong way," Dean says, "but I'm starting to think it wasn't just my idea."

~

end.

Feedback is, as ever, welcome! =)


End file.
